(no subject)
Gregory House watches the glass creak alarmingly beneath the gathering weight against it. His hand goes automatically to his pocket for the little orange tub, and he inclines his head towards the straining windows.
"Who thought it was a good idea to make entire walls out of glass?"
"I don't think the designers were expecting us to end up in this situation," Wilson mutters, watching as Chase and Foreman overturn a table and slide gingerly against the thick, transparent barrier. "I don't think that's going to hold it, either."
House gulps down another two pills and pulls a grotesque grimace at the faces gathered on the other side of the window. Soon, Wilson realises, he's going to run out of those. There's an emergency back-up tub in one of these cupboards, and he personally carries a few in case of unexpected shortages or bargaining situations, but they're cut off from the dispensary.
He allows himself a small shudder. The inexplicable zombie invasion he can deal with, but the idea of House going cold turkey again ...
... he's going to be cranky in enclosed space. Suddenly the idea of dismemberment by zombies seems almost pleasant.
I TOLD YOU IT WAS CRACK ADDLED. You're lucky I didn't put Dr Who in as well. I WANTED to.